The Italian Billionaire's New Year Bride

He held her gaze. The candles flickered on the table between them, his dark hair falling across his brow. Her hand itched to reach over and brush it away. To touch him, to feel his skin under the palm of her hand. For a few seconds it really felt as if no one else were there but them.

His voice broke through the silence. It gave the slightest waver. “Sometimes the thought of something is always worse.” He bowed his head a little. “And don’t be afraid, Phoebe. I’ll be with you on the way home.”

She could hear the emotion in his voice. His shoulders had tensed, as had his jaw.

“What are you afraid of, Matteo?” The words came out before she could think them through. From the moment she’d met him there had been glimpses of the man struggling to fight his way out from the dark looming cloud that seemed to hang above his head. He was someone in pain—and she could recognize that. She just didn’t know if she could help.

She reached across the table and gently interlinked his fingers with hers.

His gaze was dark, intense, but she held it, not letting herself flicker for a second.

“I’m afraid of what might happen to my sister.”

“Your sister?”

There was a flash of regret on his face and she could sense his fingers pull away a little. But she held them firmly.

“She’s pregnant, isn’t she? Why could something happen to her?”

His eyes fixed on the table. He sucked in a deep breath. “Because it happened to my mother.”

It was as if the almost mild air in Rome vanished and a chill swept over her body. Every tiny little hair on Phoebe’s arms stood on end. Her stomach clenched.

She reached over and put her other hand over their intertwined ones. “What happened to your mother, Matteo?”

He pulled his hand back sharply, throwing it in the air in exasperation as he shook his head. “It’s...it’s too complicated.”

Phoebe nodded her head slowly. “Okay, but...” she glanced around the virtually empty Coliseum “...I think we have time.”

She was right at the edge. Dangling. Just waiting to find out what it was that caused Matteo to have that permanent frown marring his complexion. The thing that meant he wasn’t quite living life the way he wanted to.

But the moment was broken as the waiter came to lift their plates, and deliver their main course. The rich aroma of ravioli drifted up around her. She stared down at the plate and licked her lips. “Well, it looks delicious. But we’re not starting until we finish this conversation.”

“It’s maybe a good time to have a break,” Matteo said quickly as he picked up his fork.

“Stop it,” she said sharply, annoyed by how instantly dismissive he could be. She could almost see him putting all his shutters back into place.

“What are you afraid of, Matteo?” She let her voice soften. “Tell me what happened to your mother.”

Silence. She didn’t fill it. She let him take his time and think. After a few minutes he put his fork down and sighed.

“My mother...my mother committed suicide.”

“Oh.” Phoebe couldn’t help it, her hand had instantly gone to her mouth. “I am so sorry, Matteo, for you and for your brother and sister.”

She could see his tongue digging into the side of his cheek. It was clear there was more.

He shook his head again. “My mother...was sick. But the condition she had wasn’t well known. Nowadays they would call it postpartum psychosis.”

Phoebe wrinkled her nose. She’d heard the expression somewhere but she wasn’t quite sure what it was.

Matteo pressed his hands on the table. “My mother didn’t have existing mental health problems. But after the birth of my sister—only a few days really—she became confused and a bit manic. I was the oldest, but I was only five. I couldn’t really understand what was going on. To be honest, my father didn’t understand either. Apparently, it’s really rare. It causes depression, paranoia and can cause suicidal thoughts.” He took another deep breath. “It can happen in a few days, or a few weeks after delivery of the baby and the onset is really sudden. My mother...she became unwell really quickly. One minute she was walking about the house, talking constantly. Next, she was lying in her bed sobbing. Some nights she didn’t sleep, but spent all night pacing the house. My father thought she was just overwrought. But she knew it was more. She knew she was unwell.” He wrinkled the fine linen tablecloth in his hands. “Apparently she started to have thoughts about harming my sister. She couldn’t make sense of them. She was worried she was going to do something awful. She panicked. She felt as if no one was listening to her—no one really understood how sick she felt. She became absolutely sure she was going to do something to Brianna. She didn’t even want to be in the same room as her. So she overdosed.”